


Working Every Angle

by Fitzrove



Series: Death of a Bachelor [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Kissing, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Undercover, casefic in the loosest sense of the word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzrove/pseuds/Fitzrove
Summary: Peter Jakes goes undercover as a fashion model to investigate murder and corruption at a London fashion studio. When Morse finds out that somewhere, Peter is wearing extremely nice suits and striking poses like his life depends on it, he can't help but assume the role of an assistant to follow him.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Series: Death of a Bachelor [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1345102
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Working Every Angle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ragingstillness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragingstillness/gifts).



The smell of smoke that greeted Morse when he stepped into the studio was overwhelming. Admittedly, he’d already wondered if he was naive for thinking it would be any different from how things usually were at the station, but _still_ , weren’t people getting their faces plastered all over walls and pages supposed to be extra careful with their skin?

No matter. Not only was the feeling of spending a lot of time in a smoky environment familiar to him, but the particular brand of cigarettes was also one he’d recognise anywhere. Making his way through the short corridor, trying not to bump into the several empty clothing racks that someone had left lying about in a hurry, he finally arrived to the doorway, partially obscured by a stiff black curtain. He took a deep breath, ready to take on his assumed identity and do his best to play by the undercover role, despite the somewhat difficult circumstances, and stepped close to open the -

“Mind the light!” came a shout, and Morse didn’t know whether to step back and pull the curtain shut, or to quickly step into the room and try to smooth over his awkward entrance after the fact. Before he could act either way, there was a bright camera flash, followed by a muttered curse that made Morse raise his eyebrows.

“Oh, come on, you ruined the shot! Film isn’t cheap these days, you know”, a man perched atop a high stool told him, taking his eyes off the camera to squint at him. However, Morse didn’t have much time to look at the photographer’s short-cropped light brown hair or his pencil moustache, because his eyes were drawn to someone else, standing in the bright studio lights like he’d never been anywhere else, cigarette between his lips and face set into the smirk that always infuriated Morse and yet managed to charm him every time.

Peter Jakes, in a well-fitting suit, not to mention one that you couldn’t really afford even on a sergeant’s salary. He subtly dragged the cigarette across his lips, knowing Morse was utterly transfixed, and Morse couldn’t help but feel his face heat up at the audacity.

He couldn’t say anything on his behalf before a door opened at the back of the room, which made Morse realise he probably should’ve gone all around the studio when he arrived as well, instead of storming right in through the curtain. A woman came in, and Morse could recognise her from the description Frazil had given him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr Lovell, Mr Faron. This must be the new production assistant”, the woman - Miss Garner, Morse remembered - said, frowning at him a little. This definitely wasn’t a smooth start to his new occupation, but he would have to make do, and Morse tried his best to look apologetic as he walked across the room, focusing on his feet to ignore the way Peter’s eyes were probably burning holes into his skin. Before he could start introducing himself to his new manager, he realised she’d already grabbed a mound of discarded clothing items from where they’d been haphazardly draped over chairs and racks, and deposited them all into his arms in an unstable heap.

“Get these to the back room, will you?” Miss Garner said. “And oh, I’m Lydia, by the way. Dot sent me all your info in advance. Eddie, wasn’t it?”

Morse nodded, bearing the urge to cringe that came with the mention of his _nom de guerre_ . Peter had once called him that in earnest, trying to come up with a nickname that felt more personal than _Morse_ and still made sense, and he wasn’t the only one.

“Yes, ma’am”, he said, suppressed the need to take one more longing look at Peter in his gorgeous suit, with the tie a deep rich hunter green unlike anything he’d wear of his own volition and the lighting casting shadows in all the light places, making his face stern yet soft, and walked out of the room - this time through the right door.

While Morse figured out the chaos of the back room that served as a temporary storage for the cavalcade of fashion items that were apparently all needed for a single three-person photoshoot, he also had the chance to breathe and think about how he’d ended up in a fashion studio in London in the first place.

The week had been almost distressingly peaceful since Peter had been sent out on an assignment that Morse hadn’t been told much about. Without the station’s very own resident snarker, there was nobody to keep Morse from going in circles with his pen, reading and clicking and reading and clicking and eventually distracting himself from his reading with the clicking all over again with all hope of managing to make sense of the paperwork usually lost by lunchtime. He’d jumped at the chance to do some questioning at the Oxford Mail, even though he knew that a certain editor’s insightfulness wasn’t going to help his restlessness.

And he was right, of course. He and Frazil rarely exchanged too many empty pleasantries anyway, her direct approach being something Morse greatly treasured despite its occasional downsides, but this time she really didn’t cut him any slack after he’d entered her office with a smile. From the look on her face, one would’ve thought he’d managed to twist his mouth into some kind of record grimace, even though he himself knew from the mirror that the look on his face was nothing but a half-nervous smile.

“What’s the matter?” Frazil asked, taking her time looking up from the layout plan of tomorrow’s paper. 

“Given that I don’t usually visit you for tea and sympathy, I would say work”, Morse said, not rolling his eyes like the petulant teenager he almost felt like. It was stupid, he was acting stupid, and while Frazil wasn’t the most dangerous person to make a fool of himself around with, it wasn’t something he particularly needed to seek out to do regardless.

“You might as well”, Frazil said with a shrug. “But come on. We both know you don’t really listen enough if there’s something else on your mind. Get that out first.”

“It’s nothing, really. My colleague is out on an assignment.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I don’t know, I’m so used to him countering everything I say that it seems like I can’t get my thoughts in order without those prompts. Rather foolish, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“A phone call would’ve been nice, and I did get one, but he just said he didn’t have any time to meet even after work this week”, Morse said, and Christ, he was rambling worse than he had in a while. It wasn’t like him to spill his thoughts out to people like that, and while Frazil and her devious journalistic mind-tricks did admittedly bring out a sort of weird ease of running his mouth, he really shouldn’t have -

“Is this colleague of yours tall, dark and handsome?” Frazil asked. Morse frowned at her. He could never really tell if she was playing with him, and even when he could, it was hard to know to what end it all was. To be honest, he wasn’t sure if Frazil knew about their relationship, because she very well might’ve. She certainly had _met_ him, though, with all the tips Peter had been leaking out to the paper for extra cash during the years, so the question seemed somewhat… odd.

“Depends on who you ask, I would think”, Morse said. Journalist as she was, Frazil was not so easily evaded.

“Well, I’m asking _you_ ”, she said, giving him a pointed look. Morse decided not to dignify that with an answer, crossing his arms, but that did nothing to stop Frazil.

“Cheekbones that could cut glass?” she continued, practically grinning as she leafed through a fashion magazine that Morse only now noticed she had on the desk. Morse stared at her, unimpressed, and had just about managed to come up with a witty enough comeback, when Frazil flicked the centerfold open.

Peter, leaning against a wall with a ridiculously expensive-looking jacket carelessly thrown over his shoulder. The look on his face was ethereal, the relaxed, faraway smile almost hiding the familiar intensity in his eyes. The effect was only exaggerated by the glossy sheen of the page, and only after managing to draw his eyes away from him did Morse realise he’d forgotten how to breathe for a moment. There was no hiding it from Frazil either, and Morse only now realised that she’d been graciously giving him a chance to ogle, which was a thought that made the steady warmth of a blush creep up his neck.

“Nathan Faron, it says in fine print at the bottom, taking the London fashion circles by storm“, Frazil said. “He came out of nowhere, with an absolutely striking look, and just like that, everyone was scrambling to hire him. He’s been making jack for his agency from the first day. If I didn’t know better, I would think this has something to do with the purported money laundering scheme that has already led to a young man’s death here in Oxford.”

“Please, miss Frazil, you must promise to keep this under wraps for now”, Morse said, trying not to let his tiredness seep into his voice. “I don’t think I need to say this, but if this comes out when the investigation is still underway, it can and will jeopardise the whole operation.”

“You’re no fun”, Frazil said, but her smile was so genuine that Morse didn’t bother with a stern look, just shaking his head in disbelief.

“Fine. You’ll get your information for nothing juicy in return”, Frazil started, and Morse let out a surprised sigh of relief.

“ _But_ , we do reserve the right to publish a black and white of a nice editorial, should we acquire the rights in time”, Frazil added. “It will make a nice accompaniment to the _Top of the Cops_ article we did some time ago, won’t it? One sings, another looks dashing in studio lighting… our boys in blue are full of surprises. Perhaps I should plan out a whole series.” 

Morse had done his best not to look too mortified, but thinking back on it, he’d failed miserably.

***

Back at the studio, Morse was finally starting to make sense of how the extremely unorganised storage room (that had been turned into a walk-in closet) was supposed to be manned. A timetable of the day’s photoshoots had been put up on the wall, indicating that some others were up after lunch, but Peter (or Nathan) had been the only one to have been booked for the morning. Morse was starting to wonder whether it was chance or blatant favouritism, already starting to show even though Peter had spent less than a month pretending to be a model and less than a week at this particular studio.

The clutter turned out not to be impossible to sort through. After re-hanging most, if not all, of the clothing, Morse realised more trouble was ahead. He’d definitely need to iron an impossible amount of shirts in the coming days. Just his luck, really, and Morse really couldn’t do anything but try to be fast about it. And maybe there would be something worthwhile hiding under the mess, a clue that would get them ahead. He was absentmindedly going through the pockets of the nearest shirt, when the door to the storage room opened, making him freeze.

“Wotcha, Ed”, Peter said, and Morse’s shock at being caught red-handed turned into apprehension at the nickname, then amusement at the way Peter was smirking at him. “Everyone else already left for their lunch break. But figures you’d still be holed up here. The rookie’s lot.”

Morse looked to the door, trying to listen for anything just in case someone was still in the building. When he heard nothing, he shoved the rack between them towards the wall with a clang - thankfully it didn’t run over any clothing, since Morse had mostly cleared out the floor - and practically bolted into Peter’s chest, wrapping his arms around him.

“Stop being rude to me”, Morse said. “Or I’ll feel guilty about being attracted to a model who doesn’t respect the hard-working magazine staff.”

That earned Morse a smile, and while putting his hands in Peter’s hair was out of the question right now, he couldn’t resist cupping Peter’s cheek and running his thumb over it, marvelling at the close shave and the smoothness of his skin. Peter responded by taking hold of Morse’s hand and pressing a breathy kiss against the inside of his wrist. Another kiss followed when their hands were out of the way, Peter holding his and leaning in to give Morse a peck on the cheek.

“Alright, then. I’m sorry about the ‘Ed’”, Peter acquiesced, and Morse smirked at how easy he was to sway when you knew which strings to pull. “Have you had the chance to snoop around in here?”

“Unlike some people, my undercover job actually involves doing something other than standing around looking fanciable, so not yet.”

“And yet you’re surprisingly good at doing just that even while you’re doing something else”, Peter said, and that kind of obvious flattery shouldn’t have gotten into Morse’s head so fast, but but it did.

“I don’t think there’s anything up with the photographer”, Peter said. Morse raised an eyebrow.

“Really? Given how easily you usually judge by appearance, I would’ve thought -”

“Right, but he’s not it this time around. The woman, Miss Garner, wasn’t it, is constantly getting phone calls and they don’t seem very innocent. Not to sound like a peeping tom, but I had a smoke outside the ladies’ room and she was having another one of those inside, talking about charley and stashes. And she flips accents like crazy.”

“You mean she might be a fraud?” Morse asked. It seemed altogether too easy to be true, but then again, Peter had spent a week observing her, and Morse had only just arrived. Apparently it was going to be up to him for look for concrete evidence and Peter to listen in on conversations. It wasn’t the way Morse usually preferred it to go.

“I’m not sure yet. Let’s keep looking”, Peter said. Morse nodded, squeezing Peter’s hand before letting go and turning around to get back to going through the rack.

“I’d love to have lunch with you, but…” Peter started, but Morse shook his head.

“Just go. I’ll grab something when they let me.”

“Alright”, Peter said. He looked pensive for a moment, but when Morse didn’t turn to look at him again, he left the room and shut the door behind him.

***

The day had been incredibly slow to pass after Morse had found out about the nature of Peter’s undercover assignment. It didn’t feel right to go straight to Thursday to grill him for information, since it really was none of his business. He was still in the middle of going through the previous case, buried under paperwork, and it wasn’t like he could blame an acute murder case and get involved in order to save someone. Still, he couldn’t get the thought of the magazine out of his head, having just barely avoided begging Frazil to let him grab it and take it home as a souvenir. When he got home that night, he didn’t even bother thinking about dinner before picking up the phone. Good thing he’d been nosey enough to go looking through the collection of fresh expense reports to find out the hotel and the room number.

“Room 378“, a familiar voice drawled. Morse sighed.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked. A chuckle came through from the other end of the line.

“What, so you could come up to my hotel room and pawn all the luxury soap? Dream on, Morse”, Peter said, considerably less surprised than he ought to have been. “They really should stop letting you snoop around so much. Have you got any paperwork done?”

“Nice to talk to you too”, Morse snapped. He regretted it right away, since there was a pretty long silence before Peter spoke again, his voice softer.

“Honestly, I’m glad you called, luv. There’s nothing for me to do before the party tonight where I’m supposed to stay dry as a sponge. Something about having enough wits to observe. ‘S going to be a right bore, I’m afraid.”

“I saw your picture”, Morse said, deciding it was better to spit it out and not let it choke him up any further than it already had. “With the… jacket. Uhm…”

“If you bought the magazine just because of me, I’m flattered, but if you ripped up someone else’s copy in order to get the photo, I’ll consider a restraining order.”

“Stop it! I just - god, I hate how good you look in it. You might as well change careers at this point.”

“Well thank you, darling”, Peter said, and Morse could just about _imagine_ his smile. He didn’t know how he’d manage days, if not weeks, without seeing Peter. “Although if I’m being entirely honest, the pay is garbage. If I wasn’t still getting my usual check, I’d be starving on the street in a week. Might have to find some foolishly kind ginger policeman and live off him.”

“I’m sure we’d manage”, Morse said, not able to keep the grin out of his voice. “But honestly, Peter. How do you do it?”

“Wish I knew, because then I’d definitely teach you”, Peter said. “A lot of it comes from confidence. The expensive clobber helps. I wonder if they might let me take something home one of these days, since the money itself doesn’t really add anything to our funds.”

 _Our_ funds. It still sounded like it couldn’t possibly be true, but if things went right, they’d have moved in together by the same time next year. Friends, right, with each having their own room in the house to bring girls into - they’d just decline to mention that only one bedroom was being used as intended, the other’s purpose currently under debate. Peter did love the idea of Morse having space for his books and the expanding record collection, as well as getting some new shelf-space of his own, but he also loved the idea of a walk-in closet. They just might be able to fit both, but that would come down to the house they settled on. For now, they were still saving up.

“Morse, are you still there?”  
“No, I mean - yes. I just started thinking about… work.”

“I won’t judge if you were thinking about my magazine photo. Hell, _I’d_ like to shag me based on that one.”

“The phone bill is going to be huge this month if we keep this up.”

“You could come visit! At least when I’m done here. I’ll look into what’s on at the Royal Opera, and we could pay one more night at the hotel out of pocket when the case is over.”

It all sounded lovely, but Morse didn’t like the idea of having to wait weeks and weeks to see Peter again, spending eight hours a day on paperwork, bored out of his skull. As much as he wasn’t overly fond of London, a plan was beginning to form in his head.

***

“Mr Bright, sir, could I talk to you for a moment?”  
“Ah, Morse. Do go on.”

“I was wondering whether sergeant Jakes really is going to be able to handle this Prescott Studios case all on his own. I don’t mean to undermine his seniority, but I think I could be of some assistance.”

“As I recall, you used to study Classics and not fashion.”  
“Yes, sir, but all I’m saying that it might help to have another pair of eyes. For instance…” 

***

Morse still marvelled at how flimsy his excuse for needing to be sent undercover had been, but there he was, and he wasn’t intending to waste that time either. Unfortunately, there were some drawbacks to the circumstances of this specific investigation, most or rather all of them related to ‘Nathan Faron’.

So far, Morse had come across Peter in various highly fashionable suits, and while he didn’t have a particular eye for fashion (as much as he tried to convince Miss Garner otherwise), he wasn’t entirely blind to aesthetic appeal either. The worst thing was that the suits weren’t the end of it.

Apparently it was entirely possible to photograph a good-looking man in a well-tailored suit in a million ways, each one more attractive than the other. And since Morse was a studio assistant, the test prints of each session would be put up on the walls, Peter’s sultry looks becoming inescapable even when he wasn’t walking past Morse on the narrow corridors and sneaking a hand down to pat him on his behind as he told him to ‘run along now’. Peter wore things other than suits too, _street fashion_ , but the kind of ridiculously high-end street fashion that would have a hard time fitting in even in places like Knightsbridge. Sometimes it was a richly coloured shirt that made his features and dark brows even more dramatic, sometimes just a pair of very tight trousers. Regardless, seeing him in some new sort of ensemble every day meant that Morse was all the more glad for the somewhat strict dress policy of the CID. Otherwise, he would’ve lost all focus a long time ago.

A few times, the photoshoots had taken them into another location besides the studio space itself, so Morse wasn’t surprised when he was ordered to come in early in the morning to pack up. He was staying with Peter at the hotel, naturally, so the bastard was _most supportive_ when the alarm rang at five-ish.

“Make it stop”, Peter whined, and even though Morse couldn’t see his face in the dark, he was probably scowling in the way that made him look like a ruffled owl. Morse was still trying to blink his eyes open himself, but managed to reach onto the nightstand and let his hand fall roughly in the direction of the alarm clock. Miraculously, he hit the snooze button, and Peter stopped squirming, falling face-first into the pillow. Morse drew in a long breath, attempting to get up, but he was stopped by Peter slinging his arm over Morse’s chest, trying to cling to him and pull him back under the blanket.

“I have to leave in less than half an hour”, Morse said, voice still rough from sleep, but Peter didn’t let go, instead pressing his entire face against Morse’s arm, mumbling something incoherent.

“‘S not fair”, Peter managed to say, pulling back just enough to speak, but showing no intention of letting go. “I’m going to be lonely.”

“You’re going to _sleep_ , while I’m going to sit on the tube and be questioned for looking drunk because of how tired I am”, Morse said. “I’ll set your alarm for half past seven. See you soon.”

Peter did let go eventually, only after several attempts to kiss Morse (which Morse dodged in fear of morning breath, so they mostly landed across his chin) and Morse managed to reset the alarm, shave and get dressed without turning too many lights on. When he made to depart, Peter had fallen asleep again, sprawled across the bed like a manta ray. Morse made sure to drop a kiss on his forehead before leaving. God knew what sort of impossibly appealing look he’d have to see Peter sporting later today, so it only made sense to take advantage of this one, for his eyes only - Peter when the posing was stripped away, the stern line of his brows softened by sleep.

A surprise did await at the studio. Miss Garner hadn’t bothered to tell him that they would be loading an extensive amount of clothing items, lighting rigs and other equipment onto a truck and heading _back to Oxford_ of all places. A prominent brand had apparently reached an agreement with Courtenay College, and the location did lend a great amount of… academic spirit to the photos that would come out of it. Morse could only hope he wasn’t going to spend the whole time chasing students away. It wasn’t all for nothing, though - they’d probably meet some of the studio’s frequent collaborators, which put them one step closer to finding who was connected to the dirty money and who wasn’t.

So, Morse had ended up in a white tent instead of the cramped back room, trying to angle himself so he wouldn’t burn the back of his neck and keep shuffling the racks around so he wouldn’t get yelled at when the item requested wasn’t instantly available. It was more than a bit annoying to feel like a fresh uniform constable again, everyone ordering him around and asking him to fetch water or coffee and basically do everyone else’s job on the side as well. Hell, he was probably being treated worse than as a constable. He was starting to gain insight into what Trewlove must’ve dealt with when she started in the force.

Peter seemed to be kept busy too, although Morse couldn’t see much of the set itself, with all the people coming and going through the tent with various requests that he had to see to. Luckily he could also occasionally listen in when models, fashion directors and other people with possibly interesting information stopped by to chat in the shade. But by late afternoon, it was becoming clear most of them had very little to offer, mostly just taking their frustrations about the blazing sun and almost unnaturally clear and cloudless weather on him.

When a man, perhaps a don, approached the tent, Morse was too busy to shoo him off right away. In hindsight, he definitely should’ve, because it would’ve either erased the intense shock of awkwardness that ensued when he stepped under it and locked eyes with Morse, or at least taken it further away from the bustling centre of activity for the photoshoot.

“Pagan?” the don asked, making Morse freeze dead in his tracks. “Blimey, is it really you?”

Morse blinked a few times, before recognising the face, almost ten years older than it had been when he saw the man last. It was none other than an acquaintance from his university years, a chap named… Hutton. Morse had no idea what his first name was, which felt more than a bit strange. He only remembered all the jokes he’d heard some of Tony’s friends make whenever a certain type of meat was served for lunch or dinner. Rhymes, very clever. Morse hadn’t really ever intervened, mostly because it was relaxing not to be the one targeted for something like that for once.

“What are you doing here?” Hutton asked. Morse tried not to look shifty as he hung up the hanger in his hands while thinking of a way to deflect the question thoroughly enough.

“I could ask the same of you”, Morse said, very creatively. “Jumped ship over to Courtenay, have you?”

“No need to be so hostile about it”, Hutton said, with a grin. “I only did it for tenure-chasing. As you might remember, Lonsdale isn’t exactly short on qualified academics in the Classics department. But this worked out very well for me.” He gestured at his very nice suit, as well as the briefcase that probably contained an original manuscript or at least some very heavy, specialised tome that Hutton would have the chance of studying this afternoon. Morse tried to hide his envious look without much success.

“Oh, congratulations”, Morse said. Hutton tilted his head.

“I must say, I’m surprised to see you working here of all places, as a fashion assistant”, Hutton said. “But then again, there’s not many professions that I could imagine you, or hell, any of our classmates in. You did always so love the tale of Achilles and Patroclus.”

Morse’s face flushed a bright shade of red. He knew he’d been a bit blunt with his affections even in college, and had a tendency to stare a little too long at girls and boys alike if he found their faces mesmerising enough, but he hadn’t realised someone other than Tony would’ve figured out that he… swung both ways, so to speak.

“No, I - what -” Morse sputtered, trying not to make a scene. There was a rare lack of people in and around the tent, but it was only a matter of time before someone turned up demanding something, and then both his precarious undercover position _and_ basic decency would be thrown out the window.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry”, Hutton said, raising his hand in a calming gesture. “I don’t think it’s exactly newsworthy to any of us. And your secret is safe with me.”

Morse stared, numb and dumbfounded. There were a million questions running through his head, and they all mingled together into such a tangled mess that it was nearly enough to put him into a catatonic state. Hutton either ignored it, or didn’t notice.

“There’s no Mrs. Hutton waiting for me at home”, Hutton said, winking. “But I’m planning to invite my good friend Henry to have dinner with me tonight. In fact, I better be going. It was nice talking to you. Cheers!”

Morse could barely mouth a goodbye, let alone speak it out loud. He closed his eyes, counting to ten as calmly as he could managed, and by the time he opened his eyes again, Hutton was gone. In his place was an irate male model turning in a faulty jacket for an emergency replacement, complaining about the unsightly seams and also saying something about the pockets. Morse took the jacket without a word, finding a flawless replacement swiftly just to get rid of the man.

When the model was gone, Morse looked around to make sure nobody was watching him, and then slipped his hand into the pocket. He found it bottomless, the lining of the jacket ripped. After some examining, he fished out a clear plastic bag full of white powder and a receipt for a London restaurant, with a phone number scrawled onto the flipside of the receipt.

***

After that discovery, they didn’t need to do much to have the puzzle pieces falling into place. An arrest was made, then a string of them followed when the Met took over, and while Peter got no paycheck from the studio for his troubles, he did get to keep some of the nice suits (and a somewhat weird-looking polo) he’d modelled for them. Morse naturally got nothing, but the fact that Peter gave him all the credit when they were having celebratory drinks at the Lamb and Flag was pretty good by itself. And by the end of the month, he’d get the salary he normally did, so it wasn’t like he’d been exploited for nothing.

“I know it’s not the Royal Opera, but we could have that night out now”, Peter said, as they were walking home (to Morse’s flat) from the pub, the street far from dark but empty enough that brushing shoulders was safe enough. Morse smiled.

“Night in, more like. Although I don’t really have the energy to cook…”

“You’re right”, Peter said, then leaned in close like a conspirator, putting his hand on Morse’s shoulder. Morse looked around to make sure the street really was empty, and when he knew the coast was clear, let Peter whisper into his ear: “Want to grab something quick for dinner and shag on the couch?”

Morse looked at Peter as if evaluating him, making sure to lick his lips in a way that he could claim accidental. Peter wasn’t really buying it, but Morse still rewarded him for his patience with a peck on the cheek.

“Sounds like a plan”, Morse said, already full of ideas about all sorts of things he could do to mess with Peter. “But you’re buying.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fic-related: Patrocles and Achilleus is a mythological did-they-didn't-they relationship from ancient Greece. I googled "ancient greece gay story" to find it because I'm cultured like that. XD
> 
> I'd like to thank Ragingstillness so much for giving my past works a lot of love, and also chatting with me and brainstorming awesome fic ideas!!! This is truly dedicated to you as a (somewhat late) Christmas gift, with love. You made me believe in myself again!
> 
> Also thank you so much to my friend desperately-human for brainstorming help. You will also get a ficcy gift when I manage to churn it out, this time from the cursed shadowland of Ludo/Morse(/Violetta)... all of you can look out for that ;D
> 
> I literally got back my long-lost joy of writing after this. 2020 has been a pretty depressing and busy year in general, and a long-time friendship and "writing partnership" also ended messily some months ago. However, I finally pulled through after all these months of writing zero creative stuff, and this is my big comeback! :D I just want to super tell you all how much I appreciate every comment and kudos my fics get. I notice and treasure them all, and they give me courage to keep writing even when it's hard!
> 
> Let's hope the new year of 2021 brings many a jarse fic along with it (the jarse renaissance, please???), as well as other little and big good things ;D I'll be sure to try to contribute into the fic department. Even though university makes me busy, writing is entirely possible if I play a little bit less Tetris and force myself to put my daydreams to paper. And for now, I'm on holiday until mid-January anyway, so there should be more fic to come!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, don't hesitate to tell me in the form of comments or kudos! And Happy New Year to everyone in advance already :) <3
> 
> ++ I kinda want to write a smutty tie-in for this, so hmu with ideas if you want to ;D Here or in Tumblr private messages.


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